#disaster tw

Desperately looking around they spotted the hovering marker for the Zone Commander and activated their own marker, MEDIC: LVL 5 SC60-100. Throwing a quick salute they waited as the Commander pulled up the current deployed ranks and quickly tossed a new designation at them, changing the marker to MEDIC: FIELD TRIAGE 20. Pointing in a vague direction they turned to direct incoming stretchers and further personnel.

People were trapped. Screaming. Burning alive. The smell of melted flesh and plastic was acrid on their nose and the heat singed the back of their throat as they carefully but quickly made their way through the wreckage to the Triage Officer with the number 20 above their head. Alarms blazed and flames whistled in the distance as the fire team fought the inferno, the space so large they looked like dolls in the distance under the towering waves of fire.

Caretaker forced themself to keep their eyes on the destination and not on the desperately people waving fingers or scraps of cloth from below rubble. They focused on the sound of their breathing as they tried to force it into a rhythm instead of hearing the pops, sizzles and moans of people and things that somehow could be heard above the flames and overworking ventilation system. 

A flick of the wrist and Triage Officer 20 gave Caretaker a map that they pulled up, highlighting their search area. No further communication was needed, everyone had done the same simulations and studied the same scenarios. Everyone had the same hope they’d never have to use it. “Yes, Xur!” Caretaker hurried onward. 

Firefighters were pushing back the flames to the source, exposing more areas and wounded. Letting the marker overlay a pattern that traced where Caretaker had been, they started in one corner of their map with a person laying beside a control panel, their limbs black and red and split open in several spots. Still breathing. The air moved slowly, jagged and sharp as it whistled through a small space in a throat not yet swollen shut. Not for long. There would be many more like this, time to move on. They hovered their hand over the body for a moment, “Black.” A chirp confirmed their marker had registered the assessment and uploaded the data, now any medics would see the overlay instantly and the transporters would know to move on and leave this one. “Red.” Tying a tourniquet around the severed limb, Caretaker patted the shoulder of the wide eyed janitor but said nothing more, they had no comfort to give and no time to give it.

“Yellow. Xur, you need to move.” Caretaker’s careful eyes met red and panicked ones as the woman tried to say things back but Caretaker didn’t have time for it. “You can and you will. Xur, please. Go. Over there to Beacon 20, see? GO.” The push of authority in their voice startled the woman but she started moving, cradling her broken arm and moving almost robotically. 

Their boots slipped on a hot metal plate and they shouted, scrambling up to their feet and blowing on their burned palms. Mostly first degree and some minor second degree, but they could push past it and worry about infection later. They could only carry so many supplies with them and their patients needed them more.

Three times Caretaker triaged their area, the second time managing to rescue and drag out three people themselves to cut down on the work for the transporters. It wasn’t exactly policy, but Caretaker needed to do something besides changing Red to Black while waiting for more help. After the third round there were no more Reds left, one way or another. 

They went back to the Triage Officer for a new area, hiding their shredded and swollen hands. The officer noted their boots almost melted to their feet and their voice was too hoarse for comfort, sending Caretaker away from the hot zone to treat the Yellows. 

Oxygen masks were shared amongst groups of three, wounds were cleaned and left out in the open air since clean bandages were rationed to place between fingers and toes or to keep membranes moist. Pained cries were ignored as Caretaker and the others swiftly moved from one patient to another, reassessing and changing priority for who was transported out next. 

Their throats were gritty with soot and choked with resolve, there was little energy spared for kind words or comforting measures as the few treated the many. Caretaker’s hands were agony with every touch, they couldn’t spend the energy to comfort their patients despite the outreached hands and tears in their eyes. The hysterical ones were harder to manage, but Caretaker couldn’t hold it against them if the alternative meant the far off look they saw in the eyes of the silent ones. 

It would take almost a full week for Caretaker to smell anything but singe and char again and two weeks before they would be able to enter the dining hall or kitchen areas without the smell of cooking setting their stomach off. Their friend helped them shower afterwards, pretending not to hear the hisses and whimpers of pain from every touch and splash. It was worth it to be rid the soot and smell, but Caretaker still didn’t feel clean after.

The stench seeps through the corridors, mingling with sand and dust, ash and--- and---

The miners’ guild, just next door to the ruined goldsmiths' workshop, burrows deep into the stone hillside. The tavern and its dancing girls are (were) an easy distraction for the apprentice smiths. No one blames them for lingering overlong when picking up a delivery of gemstones. 

He was here not even a sennight ago.

The rack of casks on the back wall is tipped on its face. The smell of stale beer fills his nose, even through the bandana he is wearing to keep out the worst of the choking dust. 

The floor is tacky with it. His boots stick to the stone. 

The center of the room was the dance floor. 

Broken columns, the vault collapsed. Stone blocks. Bricks, all disarray.

A splintered table leg sticks absurdly out of the chaos. 

Dust, and dust, and dust. 

Gloves. His fingers are half-raw anyway, from when he forgets. 

They begin. 

Stabilize. Excavate. Sort the debris. 

Three suns of this, and he is almost numb to it. 

Here, Zedyr, help me with---

Lift, as one. His knees crunch as they straighten.

Under the slab---

Under---

A slack face, peaceful except for the slick of dried blood. A metal tankard in her hand, half-crushed. The rest --

He can't look. 

He has to look. 

Rotten wheat and the stench of death. 

Gloved hands pull away the stones of the haphazard cairn. Brick, sandstone, blood, worse.

Tears make tracks through the layer of dust, but the hands don't stop.

Saltwater drips, darkening stone.

Seawater on limestone, lavender on the tide---DON’T---

Three suns of this, and he is almost numb to it.

-------------------

Zedyr has nightmares -- flashes of vivid memory -- from this period of time, but most of it and the year following are a formless blur. In a sense, he both cannot forget it and cannot remember it.